Select Moments from the Life of Dr Angus Bumby
by iverniler
Summary: Spoilers. The following is an account of several moments experienced by one Dr. Angus Bumby in the months before his untimely demise; a demise which made some sad, others happy, and was ignored by the vast majority.
1. A Somewhat Expected Tragedy

Dr. Angus Bumby, the sole proprietor of the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth, sighed as he attempted with only limited success to complete his paperwork. While the majority of his clientele preferred that there be no documentation of their transactions with him, the same could not be said of the other people he had to work with. Furthermore, in addition to the paperwork he had to fill out to keep the more unsavory aspects of his business shrouded, his rising status in the philanthropic community forced him to keep in contact with a very large number of people who were all fully convinced that they were important enough for him to devote every second of his time to corresponding with them, and who all had the power to ruin him should he ever make them question this conviction. It was enough to sometimes make him pine for his Oxford days.

A knock on his office door offered Bumby a welcome distraction from his work.

"Nurse Witless is here to see you, sir," one of his charges called in from the hallway outside.

Bumby sighed. Pris Witless, whose last name was depressingly appropriate for her, had once been a nurse at the Rutledge Private Clinic and Asylum. They had met a few years ago, back when the clinic had still employed her, while Bumby was visiting the asylum in search of lost souls he could bring back to Houndsditch. She had taken a liking to him, and, in exchange for the occasional donation and a few kind words now and then, had agreed to advise any youths leaving the asylum, like Alice, to seek him out. After Rutledge let her go she had kept herself sustained by doing odd jobs and preying on the easily manipulated. Her new status allowed her to keep her ear to the ground, so the doctor was still able to get some use out of her now and then.

"Send her in," Bumby ordered distractedly as he continued penning a letter to one of the many indistinguishable people clamoring for his attention.

A few minutes later the elderly Miss Witless timidly entered his office, still breathing heavily from having to negotiate the stairs up to the Home's second floor.

"Good day, Miss Witless," Bumby said, smiling as he put down his pen. "I trust my charges didn't give you any trouble on your way in."

"Oh, no, no," Witless replied distractedly, nervously wringing her hands and furtively glancing out of the office window.

After a moment or two passed in silence, Bumby politely asked, "Would you like to take a seat?"

"Hm?" Witless replied distractedly. "Oh, yes, yes. By the way," she asked as she slowly negotiated her way into the chair Bumby kept in his office for guests, "I don't suppose Alice happened to come back here just before me, did she?"

"Alice?" Bumby frowned. "No. Why?"

"Ah." Witless continued nervously wringing her hands. "I… well, it's probably nothing, but…"

"Is there are problem, Pris?" Bumby asked as kindly as he could.

"…Well, it's like this. I happened to run into Alice while I was out taking a walk, looking lost and confused as a lamb in a butcher shop; Alice, that is, not me; and I say to myself, 'Pris, you'll never forgive yourself if you just leave her there and then something happens to her,' so I go up to her and ask her if she'd like to visit my pigeons; she likes my pigeons, you know, always seem to calm her down; so we're up on the roof, me and her, and I'm feeding my pigeons; pretty birds, lovely companions; and we're talking, all's normal, nothing's off, and then… and then…"

"Pris," Bumby asked a little sternly, "what happened?"

"Well, I just don't know. One moment she's fine, and then suddenly she's pointing at me and screaming as if I'd turned into the devil himself; at me, can you imagine?; and then she runs off, shouting all sorts of nonsense and flailing her arms about as if she were trying to stab the air! I was so frightened it took me a moment to regain my composure, and by the time I did she was nowhere to be found, so I immediately started off to tell you what happened, and… well, here I am, telling you."

Bumby was quiet for a while, then he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Miss Witless…" he began as he put his glasses back on, "are you absolutely certain you have no idea where Miss Liddell went?"

"Absolutely," Witless replied. "Like I said, she was screaming about something, but it was all nonsense about turtles and snails and blades and a whole lot of other things I couldn't make out. Certainly nothing that would help you find her."

"I see," Bumby replied as he reflectively toyed with his pen.

"I tell you, I've seen her like this a few times before," Witless continued once she was certain that Bumby wasn't going to say anything else, "but never since she left Rutledge, I can tell you that."

"Hm."

"If you'd told me just a week ago that she'd do something like that again, I'd… well, obviously I would have believed you, but if someone else had, I certainly wouldn't have. I mean, what could have set her off? You don't suppose one of the children did something, do you? I know I certainly didn't."

"…Well," Bumby finally said, "it's difficult to say at this point, of course. I've been trying some new procedures with Alice lately, but–"

"You don't suppose that could have done it, do you?" Witless asked, eager to keep the blame as far away from herself as possible.

"Like I said, it's a bit early to say right now–"

"But it's possible, isn't it?" Witless insisted, leaning forward slightly.

Dr. Bumby smiled and laid Witless's fears to rest with sweet words and countless reassurances. He then offered to escort her out, just to make sure that she had fully recovered from her shock. Once they reached the House's stairwell, he gave her a sharp push. She fell down the stairs, her aged bones breaking easily as she tumbled down. By the time she hit the landing between the floors, she was already at death's door.

With her last bit of strength, Pris Witless slowly turned her head to face Dr. Bumby, who still stood at the top at the top of the stairwell, calm and collected as ever, and gasped out, "Dr. Bumby?"

"Yes, sorry," Bumby replied, his cathartic vision quickly dissipating as reality reasserted itself, depositing him back in his office in front of a now slightly confused, but very much alive, Pris Witless. "I guess even I'm a bit rattled. As you were saying, it is possible, but it's far more likely that this relapse was inevitable. Not to disparage Rutledge, but it hardly has a spotless record. In fact, for all we know, this may have happened much sooner were it not for our efforts."

"Oh," Witless replied, happy at being presented a possibility that both asserted her innocence and complimented her. "Well, that does make a lot of sense. Which itself makes sense, of course, you being a doctor and all."

"It's just a theory," Bumby humbly replied.

"Ah, but it's a very good theory," Witless insisted.

Bumby chuckled. "If you insist, Pris."

"I always knew there was something wrong with the poor dear," Witless continued, "I've always said so. Just before I sent her to you, I told you, 'You won't have much luck with this one, I'm afraid,' remember?"

"Yes, Pris," Bumby said automatically, his mind more concerned with how to resolve this dilemma than the ex-nurse's prattle.

"It's not that big of a surprise, though, really. Accident or not, killing your family's not something most adults can recover from, never mind children. I remember there was this one boy at Rut–"

"I'm sorry, what was that last bit?" Bumby suddenly asked, his focus snapping back to the woman in front of him.

"Hm?" Witless blinked, slightly startled.

"Did you just suggest that Alice killed her family?"

"I…" Witless squirmed uncomfortably, "I don't think–"

"I'm fairly certain you did," Bumby quietly insisted in a manner that left no room for argument.

"Well… well, perhaps I did, but it's not like I'm the first person to have suggested it. Just ask–"

"Pris."

"…Alright. I know when I'm caught. Back when I was taking care of Alice at Rutledge, I heard her say in her sleep 'All died on my account, I couldn't save you!' I know, I know, that doesn't really prove much of anything, which is why I didn't think you needed to know, but Alice flew into a panic when I told her she'd said that, so I promised her that I would wouldn't tell you or–" Witless hesitated, then nervously concluded, "Or anyone else."

"…And that's it?" Bumby asked, allowing suspicion to creep into his voice, but not enough to frighten his new plaything.

"Yes," Witless replied primly, her mouth as firmly set as her wrinkled lips would allow. "That's it."

"I see." The doctor leaned back. "You know, Alice seems to keep losing part of the allowance I give her."

"Well, I don't know anything about that, " the former nurse replied a little too quickly.

"Of course you don't. By the way, you are aware that the confession of a raving lunatic, particularly one as young and damaged as Alice, is not of much interest to the police, aren't you?"

Witless squirmed in her chair.

"But, then again, such a lunatic lacks the capacity to understand that, doesn't she, Pris?"

Witless was quiet, but her averted eyes spoke volumes.

Bumby sighed. "Really, Miss Witless, isn't this a bit beneath you?"

It wasn't, actually. In fact, Bumby would have been hard pressed to name anything Pris Witless was above. But there was no need to tell her that.

"I have no idea what on earth you're on about," Witless stated, still not meeting Bumby's penetrating gaze.

"Of course you don't," Bumby replied.

Direct confrontation obviously wasn't working. It was time to take a different approach.

The psychiatrist shook his head in feigned disappointment. "I must say, your friends won't be happy about this."

"My what?" Witless blinked.

"Your friends. You did tell me that you are a member of an anti-monarchist group, didn't you?"

Witless's eyes widened a little. "You wouldn't…"

"I can't imagine that they'd approve of further victimizing a poor traumatized orphan. Or of telling someone outside the group of their existence, for that matter. Especially an upper-class fellow like myself, eh?"

"I…" Witless futilely attempted to hide her panic as the fear of losing what few friends she had filled her. "P-please, Dr. Bumby, I… I was hard up for money, and I… I just thought she owed me a bit for all the kindness I'd showed her in Rutledge, I never… I'm sorry! I-it won't happen again, so pl–"

Bumby smiled magnanimously. "Well, if you're sorry, you're sorry. Let's consider the matter settled and never speak of it again, hm?"

"I… what? Oh, yes. Of course. Thank you so much, Dr. Bumby."

"I didn't scare you, did I?" Bumby asked, his brows knitting with concern. "I'm sorry, I just get a little protective of my charges. You understand, of course."

"Oh, yes, yes," Witless replied, slowly calming down. "Back when I was at Rutledge, there were always those trying to pick on Alice, but I gave them a stern talking to, I can tell you."

"I'm certain you did," Bumby smiled. "But, Pris, why did you feel the need to go to such lengths? You know that I am more than willing to help you whenever you run into trouble."

"Well, I just didn't want you to think any less of me," Witless replied shyly.

"Pris, you know I can't think poorly of you," Bumby gently chided.

"Oh, thank you Dr. Bumby. You're far too kind for this wicked world."

"On the contrary, Pris, I'm precisely the kindness this world deserves."

Witless's smile grew. "You're a good man, Dr. Bumby, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. If I hear anything about Alice, you'll be the first to hear it."

"Miss Witless, you're an angel. Would you like me to see you out of the house?"

"No, I can manage," Witless replied, slowly getting out of her chair. "Thank you for taking the time to listen to an old friend."

"It's no trouble at all," Bumby said as Witless left his room and he idly wondered what would have happened if she had let him escort her out.

As soon as the ex-nurse had left his office the doctor sighed and leaned back in his chair. He stared up at his ceiling for a few minutes, then stood up and went to his window.

If Pris Witless actually kept her promise not to harass Alice anymore for more than a week after he retrieved her, it would be a sure sign that the old crook had finally died. Still, while her threats probably petrified the impressionable Alice, the idea that the police would listen to anything she said was laughable. If Witless's words had ever had any teeth, her years of addiction to Blue Ruin had long since rotted them out.

Far more concerning was Alice's disappearance. Bumby didn't usually take in children as old as Alice; it was often difficult to properly reshape their minds. However, he liked to challenge himself, and the idea of corrupting his former professor's last surviving daughter had been an appealing one. Perhaps taking the risk had been a little reckless, but it was far too late to think about that.

The best Bumby could do was offer a reward–a small reward, of course–for any information about Alice's whereabouts and hope for the best. If he was lucky, either he or the police would find her before anything untoward happened to her. However, London wasn't a particularly nice city under the best of circumstances, and it was even less kind to confused, vulnerable, and attractive women. He was willing to write off Alice as a loss if it came to that, but it would make his job considerably more difficult if she returned with a whole slew of new troubles for him to deal with.


	2. Two Gentlemen of Unexpected Character

Dr. Angus Bumby, having just returned from another tiresome social event, stood outside Houndsditch, taking a few minutes to admire his building, as he did every day.

The Houndsditch Home stood out as the only building as far as the eye could see that wasn't in a complete state of disrepair. Its mostly clean and unbroken windows reflected the sun's rays, and its fence was only mildly rusted. It looked like something a member of the lower middle class wouldn't be ashamed to live in, unlike the ramshackle constructs that surrounded it. The only glaring flaw was that the sign outside, which announced the establishment's name and proprietor, didn't have a dot after the "Dr". Regardless, it was, as Bumby often liked to remind his colleagues, the first step in the gentrification of the East End. His colleagues probably would have approved of this first step less if they knew that it had been bought with the money he had made turning his charges into mindless sex slaves and selling them, but they didn't, nor would they ever.

Once he had finished admiring the house, Bumby stepped inside, and discovered, to his considerable surprise, that two burly men were in the house's common area, entertaining his children with fishing stories.

The two men, most likely fishermen by trade, were dressed in what was presumably their Sunday best, which probably would have stalled their expulsion from the event Bumby had just attended by no more than five seconds.

Dr. Bumby cleared his throat, alerting the two fishermen to his presence.

"Day, Mr. Bumby," the taller of the two said as they turned to face him and took off their caps. His shameful accent betrayed his extremely low class.

The shorter of the two fishermen elbowed him in his arm.

"Wut? Oh, right, Dr. Bumby, that is," the taller corrected.

"Go upstairs, children," Bumby instructed his charges as he eyed his guests.

"Hey, why do they all have numbers on them?" the shorter fisherman asked.

"Some of my children do not have names," the doctor replied. "To not make them feel picked on, I make all my children wear numbers. Now, who are you and why are you here?"

"Well, er, I'm Bob, eh, I mean, I'm Robert Noble," the taller man, who apparently had been made the group's spokesman, replied, "and this here's Edward Rare."

"Day, sir," the shorter man said.

"Right, and we're here to provide information regardin' your missing bird, er, that is to say, girl."

"Oh?" Bumby replied, slightly surprised. He hadn't heard anything for a while and had resigned himself to the worst.

"Yes, sir, that we are," Noble replied, nervously fiddling with his hat.

"Well, go on."

"Right. Well, me and Ed was fishing near Billingsgate at night two days ago, when suddenly I spy me a woman floating in the river. We row over as quick as we can and pull her out and into our boat, me and Ed, and figure out right quick that she's still alive. Now, at the time we thought she was a, ah… Well, you know. A certain kind of woman."

"Not that she looked like one, mind," Rare quickly interjected.

"Right, right, she didn't look like one at all," Noble agreed.

"It's just usually when a woman is drowning in the Thames, she's a certain kind of woman who's had a few too many, you know?" Rare explained.

"Just as he said. So, we bring her to shore, me thinking she'll be real grateful to us, you know?"

"Not that we wouldn't have saved her if we hadn't thought that."

"Right, it's just that's what we did think then. So we bring her to back to the docks and I attempt to… Ah…"

"Solicit," Rare helpfully suggested.

"Right, I attempted to solicit her, but she weren't interested, and, us not wanting to press the issue, decided to leave it at that, and then she left."

"…And?" Bumby asked.

"And, well, later we learned that that girl was Alice and we should go to you, as you was worried about her," Noble concluded.

Bumby smiled knowingly. "Is that really everything that happened?"

Noble blinked in confusion. "Uh, yeah. That's it."

"She rejected your advances, and you really just let her go?"

There was a pause, then Noble snarled and seized Bumby by his coat. "You trying to say somethin' about me, mate?" he roared.

"Easy, Bob," Rare quickly said, clearly more aware of propriety than his friend.

"You hear what this bloody git just suggested I am?" Noble barked back.

"My apologies, sir," Bumby calmly said as he tried to keep his terror from showing. "I didn't mean to question your character. I just was trying to learn all that I could about what happened. I'm afraid this city has made me begin to suspect the worst of all its inhabitants. I'm sorry that I unjustly accused you, and I am in fact overjoyed that you take such umbrage to even the implication that you would do such a vile act."

Noble glared at Bumby for a while, then grunted and let him go.

"Thank you," the doctor smiled as he smoothed out his coat. "Now, did you by any chance see where Alice went?"

"Well, she went into an ice warehouse, last we saw her," Rare replied.

"Could be she went to the Mermaid," Noble suggested.

"The what?" Bumby asked.

"The Mangled Mermaid," Rare explained. "It's a pub. Well, was a pub. Burnt down last night."

"Didn't hear nothing about any girls getting killed in the fire, though," Noble quickly assured. "Last I heard, only Long Tim, the pub's heavy, got it, and he was shanked."

"Then again, we don't hear much," Rare admitted.

"Hm. Well, I appreciate the information," Bumby said. "I'll give you ten pounds for your trouble," he continued as he pulled two five-pound notes out of his wallet.

"Thank you for yer kindness, sir," Rare said, bowing as he accepted his note.

"Yeah," Noble agreed as he received his note as well. "Sorry 'bout roughing you up earlier."

"A simple misunderstanding," Bumby assured. "Don't let it trouble you in the slightest."

"By the way, we noticed yer sign is missing a dot af–"

"I'm well aware," Bumby quickly interrupted.

"Well, I happen to have a friend wh–"

"I appreciate the sentiment, but the sign's fine as it is."

Noble shrugged and walked out of the Home with his friend by his side.

As soon as the two had left, the doctor let out a disappointed sigh. While it was somewhat reassuring that Alice was still alive and apparently semi-lucid, he would have liked to have gotten more information than where she had been two days ago. Still, he would bring this information to the police as soon as he got the chance. The quicker this was all finished, the fewer chivalrous fishermen would get the chance to throttle him.


	3. A Problem Resolved and Some Ire Raised

Merely a few hours after he had talked to Noble and Rare, one of Dr. Bumby's orphans pounded on his office door.

"Yes?" Bumby sighed, not looking up from his work.

"Alice's back!" an excited orphan called in from the other side.

"What?" the doctor asked, tearing himself away from his papers.

"A blue bottle brought Alice back!"

"A what did?"

"You know, a copper. He's waiting for you downstairs."

Bumby got out from behind his desk. "Tell him I'm on my way down."

"Yes, sir!"

Bumby quickly straightened out his clothes, and then carefully put a few of his hairs out of place, as London was currently enamored with the idea that philanthropists should look mildly disheveled. Once he felt he looked proper, Bumby went downstairs to Houndsditch's foyer.

Alice Liddell was already seated in a chair near the foyer's bookcases. She was sitting bolt upright and staring absentmindedly into the middle distance. Perhaps it was just Bumby's imagination, but it seemed like she was blinking a little slower than usual. The children were keeping away from her, only occasionally throwing her glances, which was their natural response whenever they encountered a person who didn't react to their insults. The burly policeman who had brought Alice in had apparently been attempting to entertain the children while he had been waiting, but he immediately stood upright and saluted once he saw Bumby had arrived.

"Constable John Loyal, at your service, sir," the policeman announced in a rough voice that betrayed his presumably humble origins. "I am here to return your charge, Miss Alice Liddell, to your care."

Bumby smiled warmly. "No need to be so formal, Constable… Have we met before?"

"I've been sent here a few times already to deal with Alice's other little misadventures." Loyal chuckled. "Gets into quite of bit of trouble for such a proper lady, don't she?"

The doctor frowned slightly. "Miss Liddell's issues are not amusing, Mr. Loyal."

The constable immediately stopped his insubordinate smiling. "Sorry sir, didn't mean to offend."

"Apology accepted. I hope Alice didn't give you any trouble."

"Oh no, she calmed down right quick after we managed to grab her. The trick is to not be aggressive; you've gotta be real friendly while subduin' her. Not act friendly, but actually be friendly, that's the ticket. Er, not that I need to tell you, of course."

"Well, thank you for bringing her back." Bumby glanced at Alice, who still hadn't moved. "How long has she been like that?"

"Ever since she woke up. Unnatural, innit? Sometimes she says somthin', but it don't make much sense."

Bumby's frown deepened. "Did you just s–"

"You have any wasp problems here?" Loyal suddenly asked.

"Do I… No, why?"

"She was goin' on about wasps with swords for a while; thought you might have a few. Didn't mean nothin' by it."

"Ah. Returning to the matter at hand, why were you present when Alice woke up?"

"Well, see, we, that is, me and another constable, were called in yesterday to a Mr. Wilton Radcliffe's house on Threadneedle Street. Apparently Alice'd shown up there and started screaming at the bloke, er, gentleman, that is, and he'd raised the alarm, so to speak. We brought her to Bow Street easy, but she fainted as soon as we got there, and, well, we didn't think it would be proper to drag her to you like that, so we let her spend the night in our lock-up."

The doctor almost imperceptibly blanched. "You… let her spend the night…"

"Don't worry, we kept a close eye on the little miss. Nothin' happened."

Bumby worked very hard to keep his mind from envisioning all the ways that one of his charges spending the night under police supervision could ruin him. "Did she… did she say or do anything, by any chance?" he asked as casually as he could.

"Not really. Nothin' that we could make sense of, anyway, 'cepting the wasps and somethin' about her mind fallin' apart. Honest, I don't think she likes it here much."

Bumby pulled out the gun he always kept in his front-right pocket and shot Constable Loyal in the head. The children, save Alice, were naturally startled, but they were faithful to the doctor and had no love for the police. Besides, even if they told anyone, who would believe them? Bumby then dragged the policeman's body further into the house, away from prying eyes, and then went to one of the less reputable contacts that his business had forced him to cultivate. Together they took care of the body, as well as the stains. As far as the world was concerned, John Loyal was just one of many who had mysteriously vanished in the East En–

"How do you suppose they made their armor?" Alice suddenly asked, rudely interrupting the doctor's thoughts.

"Hm?" Bumby replied distractedly.

"The wasps," Alice clarified, not moving any part of her body except her mouth. "They don't seem clever enough to do it by themselves. Although I suppose I could just be meeting their soldiers. Perhaps there are several kinds of wasps, or perhaps they're cleverer about such things than they let on." She looked at Bumby expectantly.

"I… suppose," he answered, still a little thrown.

Alice smiled slightly, and then immediately resumed her trance.

There was an awkward pause, then Loyal shrugged and muttered, "Like I said, unnatural, right?"

"All too natural, actually," Bumby sighed. "The mind is far more fragile than humanity would like to admit."

"If you say so, doctor."

"I do. And a broken mind is very difficult to repair, especially if the owner of such a mind is kept overnight in a place far away from anything she is familiar with, in a prison. Understood?"

"Yes, I see your point, bu–"

"Clearly you don't understand, because if you understood, you wouldn't have put Miss Liddell in a situation that may have done her irreparable harm."

"Well, we can't drag her–"

"If such a situation arises again with any of my charges, I expect them to be brought back to me immediately, regardless of their condition."

Loyal frowned. "Now, doctor, I get yer worried about yer children, but–"

"Let me be blunt, Mr. John Loyal. It was John Loyal, wasn't it? John, I happen to be friends with Sir James Monroe. Do you know who he is?"

"Yes, b–"

"He is the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police. He thinks very highly of me. So, if I am forced to tell him that your negligence caused my charges harm, it will end very poorly for you indeed. Now do you understand?"

Loyal was silent for about half a minute, then he replied through clenched teeth, "Yes, sir. Won't happen again."

"Lovely. Now please leave, you're upsetting the children."

Loyal hesitated, then curtly nodded and marched out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.

Bumby rubbed his forehead. Normally he didn't like strong-arming, but it was undeniably effective in some circumstances. Besides, the hurt feelings of a constable would be far less of a detriment to him than the police paying close attention to Houndsditch. He was fairly certain he had already covered his tracks, but there was always a chance that someone might spot something that he had overlooked; enough of a chance to warrant some extreme behavior, anyway.

The doctor walked over to Alice and waved his hand in front her face. When that failed to get a reaction, he tried snapping his fingers next to her left ear, with similar results. He examined her more closely. She didn't appear to have been brutalized, and this behavior was similar enough to her behavior in Rutledge that it didn't imply any new major traumas.

Bumby shrugged and went back to his office. If he was lucky, Alice's state was simply an exterior reflection of the mental metamorphoses that he had been trying to instill in her. If he wasn't, then he would have to resign himself to letting Alice become part of the teeming, helpless mass that clogged London's gutters.


	4. A Meeting with an Occidental Oriental

As soon as Dr. Angus Bumby stepped out of his hansom, he saw that Wilton Radcliffe, QC, was apparently moving out of his home. Several boxes were stacked both near and in a carriage in front of the house, no doubt containing Radcliffe's extensive collection of East Asian art and curios. Radcliffe himself was arguing with several muscular individuals who were probably the movers.

"Mr. Radcliffe!" Bumby called out.

Radcliffe turned. "Dr. Bumby! One moment, please." He turned back to the movers. "Now, if I see any of you mishandling my collection again, I'll see to it that you're all docked a whole week's pay!"

"Then move yer own bleeding collection," one of the movers muttered, but he and his fellows went back to work without further complaint.

"Dr. Bumby," Radcliffe reiterated, smiling broadly as he went up to Bumby and firmly shook his hand. "Always a pleasure. Sorry things are a little at sixes and sevens, so to speak."

"No problem at all," Bumby warmly replied. "You should see my home."

"Well, let's not talk in the street. I believe I still have some chairs left inside."

"I'd be delighted," the doctor replied.

Wilton Radcliffe had once been an Oxford magistrate, but he had suffered the misfortune of not being corrupt enough to get into Parliament's good graces, but too corrupt to keep people from preying on his weaknesses. He now was a solicitor of middling ability who only had his beloved Oriental collection and several layers of fat by which to remember the good old days. He had been the Liddell family's solicitor prior to their misfortune, and become the executor of their estate afterwards. As such he had stolen much of Alice's rightful inheritance; but, to be fair, he had left her enough not to render her destitute, which was more than most solicitors would have done.

"Ah, still two chairs," Radcliffe said happily as he and Bumby entered his office. "And even a desk!"

"So, finally leaving, are we?" Bumby asked as he sat down.

"Yes, I'm afraid the city's lost what little charm it once had," the lawyer replied as he sat down, his chair creaking slightly in protest. "It's the country for me, expense be damned."

"Well, I wish you good fortune. Are you selling up?"

"No, just leaving as fast as I can before someone finally decides to burgle my art. I've been informed that I should board-up the place just before I leave to discourage squatters. A shame that we live in such disreputable times."

"All the more reason to leave, I suppose. However, I didn't come here just to socialize. I came to apologize for the trouble Miss Liddell caused you a few days ago."

"Ah, yes," Radcliffe sighed. "That. Shame the police had to become involved, but I couldn't exactly let her throw a fit in my office, particularly when I own so many irreplaceable works."

"Perfectly understandable. Out of curiosity, what precisely did she want?"

"Oh, the same as usual. First she demanded her stuffed rabbit, and then insisted I go over the details of the fire yet again. I graciously did so, only to have her shout that it made no sense and, well, you know the rest."

"Hm. I trust you didn't–"

"Never fear, I know how to follow orders. The rabbit is safely hidden away. Although I still don't understand why she can't have it."

"I am trying to get Alice to forget about the tragedy she experienced. The last thing I need are reminders of her past hindering my therapy. I already have to let her keep a picture of her family in her room."

"You are the doctor, I suppose. If you think it's for the best…"

"I do. And I'm glad you trust my judgment."

"So, how is Alice now?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. She still is capable of eating and… such, but for the most part she just sits in a chair and stares at nothing. Occasionally she mumbles something, but the only thing she has said so far that's made any sense is her sister's name. Still, I'm confident that in time we will overcome this obstacle."

"Out of curiosity, were you close to the family?"

"Which family?"

"The Liddells."

"Ah, them. I had visited them a few times, but little more than that. Alice's father was one of my professors at Oxford. I believe I courted her sister for a time, but I've forgotten most of that."

"Must not have been a very memorable courtship," Radcliffe chuckled.

"Possibly. More likely, however, is that the memories became painful after the fire, and so had to be erased."

"Erased?"

"Mr. Radcliffe," Bumby said, folding his hands together, "I am not so arrogant as to claim that I practice all that I preach, but I do firmly believe that, as I have said many times, eliminating bad memories is a cornerstone to rectifying minds. This holds as true for humanity in general as it does for my charges, and I am no exception. No doubt the memories of my brief tryst with Elizabeth Liddell were troubling, so I erased them, and now they no longer trouble me. It's that simple."

"Hm. I don't know. I have several memories of my parents that cause me pain, but I still would rather they not disappear."

"Perhaps I misspoke. 'Bad' was a poor word to use; 'hindering' would have been better, or perhaps 'detrimentory'."

"I'm not certain detrimentory is a word."

"It isn't, but it's meaning is clear regardless."

"Fair enough, I suppose."

Bumby smiled broadly. "My theory's a bit more complicated than that, of course, but you don't come to my home and lecture me about the finer points of law, now do you?"

Radcliffe chuckled. "Very well. I won't try to undermine your theories if you don't undermine my cases."

"Wonderful." Bumby suddenly frowned. "You know, it just occurred to me; if you're moving, then the last interaction you and Miss Liddell will have had will be your recent altercation."

"Yes, it is rather sad. Although…" The lawyer hesitated.

"…Yes?"

"Well… It may not be our last interaction, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You see, this recent incident has made me think that perhaps I should look into the Liddell fire again."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I think it is possible, only possible, mind you, that Alice may have played a role in starting it."

Bumby blinked. "What?"

"Call it a hunch. Now, I realize the police trying to coax information out of her might interfere a bit with your philanthropy, but I'm certain you understand my concerns."

Bumby grabbed Radcliffe's head and slammed it onto his desk over and over until the lawyer's face was no longer recognizable.

"I'm not entirely certain I do, actually," the doctor calmly told the lawyer's now mostly lifeless form. "What makes you suspect Alice?"

"A few things," Radcliffe managed to force out, the blood pouring out of his mouth almost making his words unintelligible. "Her fascination with fire, for instance."

Bumby shook his head slightly, dispelling his vision. "That's hardly surprising, given what happened."

"True, but I seem to recall her always displaying an interest in it."

"Are you certain you aren't just projecting your suspicions back onto your memories?"

"Perhaps, but, like Alice herself, the reported cause of the fire seems a bit… off."

"Off?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it, but something about the cat being the culprit always seems to send Alice into a fit, and frankly it doesn't sit completely right by me either."

"The paranoid fears of a young woman trying to find meaning in a meaningless, if tragic, accident are hardly compelling evidence."

"I never said I was certain, I just have some suspicions," Radcliffe replied somewhat angrily. "Furthermore, when I tried to talk with Alice about this, she nearly killed me!"

"I suspect I would react poorly to such a suggestion as well," Bumby pointed out, careful to keep his tone level.

"Yes, but you certainly wouldn't try to strangle me!" Radcliffe yelled.

"I apologize, I shouldn't have made you angry. Let's change the subject, shall we?"

"Yes," Radcliffe replied, taking a deep breath. "Yes, I think that would be for the best."

"Wonderful. Why don't you tell me a bit about your parents?"

"My parents?"

"Yes. Part of the Foreign Office, weren't they?"

"Correct," the lawyer answered, loosening up again. "Over the years they were posted in several cities in East Asia, often bringing me along for the ride. I dare say they're the culprits behind my fascination with the Orient."

"Rather well off, I imagine?"

"Yes, although not as much as you might think. They–"

"They died in the Sepoy Rebellion, correct?"

Radcliffe frowned. "Tragically, yes. It–"

"Were you there?"

"When they died? Of course not. I was in India at the time, but I–"

"In the same city?"

"Yes, now will you please stop interrupt–"

"How much did you inherit?"

"What?"

"I'm just curious."

"How much did I…" Radcliffe reddened. "If you're implying that–"

"I'm not implying anything, although it's fascinating that you think I am."

"I… How dare you!" the lawyer spat, swelling with rage. "The mere thought… Even if such a thing weren't fundamentally ridiculous, I was nowhere near–"

"So you've claimed, but I've seen no impartial proof as of yet, and I doubt you're going to present any."

"You–"

"Furthermore, your interest in Eastern art and curiosities suggests a certain sympathy for the Indian natives that your parents may not have shared."

Radliffe clenched his hands tightly and bellowed, "Now, see here! If you are sincerely proposing that–"

"Rather aggravating, isn't it?" Bumby said, smiling slightly.

Radcliffe blinked in confusion, then almost visibly deflated. "Yes… Yes I suppose it is. Perhaps… perhaps I was a bit hasty in reaching my conclusions, but–"

"Mr. Radcliffe," Bumby interrupted, "let us suppose for a moment that your suspicions are correct and Miss Liddell did start that fire. Do you believe she did so intentionally?"

"No, no. Most likely she was playing with matches or some such and accidently lit something."

"So what good, precisely, will come of dragging her to court and forcing her to relive those traumatic moments?"

"…None, I suppose." Radcliffe drummed his fingers for a moment then leaned back in resignation. "Very well, doctor. I still have my suspicions, but I won't trouble the police with them. That girl has endured enough misfortune without me adding to it."

"I'm glad you understand," Bumby replied as he took out his pocket watch. "Now, if you'll excuse me, one of my esteemed colleagues is getting an award, and he'll be rather miffed if I come late." He shook Radcliffe's somewhat limp hand, stated, "Always a pleasure," and then he left.


	5. A Less Expected Tragedy

Dr. Angus Bumby returned to Houndsditch a few hours later. "How's Alice?" he asked his charges distractedly as he walked in.

"She left right after you did," one of the children reported.

"That's… she what?" the doctor asked, forcing his mind to focus.

"Right after you went off she got out of her chair and walked out the door," another one of the children clarified.

"She… I told you to keep an eye on her!"

"We did," yet another child protested. "We were watching her real close as she got up and left."

Bumby suppressed his rage, then muttered, "If you'll excuse me for just a moment," and marched outside again.


	6. An Unwelcome Answer

Dr. Angus Bumby mentally girded himself as he walked into the Bow Street Police Station for a repeat of the same conversation he had had less than a month ago. "Hello," he said to the constable at the front desk as he forced himself to smile warmly. "I'd like to report–"

"Bumby, right?" the policeman interrupted. "One moment." He stood up and walked out from behind the desk, then deeper into the station.

Bumby frowned in confusion, but he obediently waited. A few minutes later the policeman returned, Constable John Loyal with him.

"Evenin', Dr. Bumby," Loyal said, a wide grin plastered over his face, while his collegue returned to the front desk.

"Good evening, Mr. Loyal," Bumby somewhat hesitantly replied as pondered whether Loyal's smile should encourage or worry him.

"How's your day been?" Loyal asked, still grinning. "Enjoy yourself?"

The doctor decided that the smile was worrying. "Actually, I have a problem. My–"

"Is it that Alice is missing?" Loyal asked.

"…Yes. H–"

"I thought it might be that. See, a few of the boys took her in a while ago. She was back on Threadneedle Street, bein' a public disturbance, as I heard it. You really ought to have kept a better eye on her," Loyal chided playfully.

"I'll keep that in mind," Bumby replied as he kept himself from clenching his fists. "Now, may I have her back?"

"Hm…" Loyal said, stroking his chin and theatrically knitting his brows together. "Well, I don't know. I'm not certain I have the power to give her, honest."

"Then may I speak to the person who does?"

"Well, I suppose you could… Yes, you could indeed. I certainly won't stop you."

"Will you bring me to him, then?"

"Oh, well, I would, but I'm afraid that'd take a bit more time than I can spare. Beg your pardon, sir."

Bumby took a deep breath. "Where is Alice, exactly?"

"Hm… I'm not certain about that meself. If I had to guess… I'd say… Well, it has been a while… She might be in Rutledge by now. She'll certainly be there by the time you arrive."

Bumby stared at Loyal. "Rutledge?"

"Yes sir, the Rutledge Private Clinic and Asylum. I can give you directions if you need 'em."

"Why is Alice in Rutledge?" Bumby asked in a daze.

"Oh, well, that's where she said she wanted to be."

"She what?"

"Well, we'd just left the station to bring her back to you, when suddenly she started pitchin' a fit and screamin' that we not bring her back. Said she needed to be brought to where she could think, where she could be safe. Must say, can't help but think your place isn't all it's supposed to be if she thinks Rutledge is better. But then, what do I know?"

"…You're lying."

"Now, Mr. Bumby!" Loyal exclaimed in false horror. "I am an officer of the law! A servant of the queen herself! I'd rather throw meself in the river before telling a lie, as would everyone else here. Which is why, when our boss asked us what happened, we told him the truth. Chances are he's telling the truth to his boss too, come to think of it, and probably so on."

"She's my patient," Bumby growled.

"Well, if you have a complaint, you can tell Sir James all about it. I'm certain this little incident won't hurt his opinion of you in the slightest, you bein' such good friends and all."

Bumby closed his eyes, then reopened them. "I'm certain this is all a misunderstanding."

"Oh, certainly."

"Alice was confused, and said some things that were misinterpreted."

"Couldn't agree with you more, sir, couldn't agree more."

"Stop smiling."

"Can't do that sir, sorry. I just lanced a boil, and it feels real good to be rid of it."

"If you think this is going to ruin me, you're wrong."

"Of course it won't," Loyal chuckled. "But that don't mean it won't do nothin', am I right?"

Bumby took out his book of matches, lit one, and then used it to set fire to the papers scattered on the front desk. The ensuing fire, fed by the many perfumes that still hung in the air from the prostitutes that had been in the station, quickly turned into a conflagration, consuming Constable Loyal and his many upstart friends, justly ripping them apart and consuming th–

The doctor quickly closed his release valve. For some reason the fire had seemed very real, and the whole scene had a troubling sense of familiarity.

"I hope you realize you're already as good as ruined," Bumby said, his piercing gaze boring into Loyal's skull.

The constable shrugged. "Maybe, but I never would've forgiven meself if I'd just told you normal."

Bumby snorted, and then marched out of the station.


	7. A Meeting of the Minds

Between his other appointments, it took two weeks of negotiating forms and a few dead-eyed nurses before Dr. Angus Bumby was finally allowed to see Alice Liddell, who had been moved back to her old room, and her new caretaker, Dr. Hieronymous Wilson, who was currently attending her.

"Good day, Dr. Wilson," Bumby greeted as he entered Alice's room.

Wilson turned and smiled. "Ah, Bumby, yes?" He extended his hand, then he hesitated, his face falling. He quickly pulled out a handkerchief and unleashed a series of hacking coughs into it. Once he was finished he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and continued, "I'd shake your hand, but under the present circumstances I feel that would be unwise."

Dr. Wilson had been part of Rutledge's staff for as long as anyone could remember; so long that many secretly felt that it was time for him to be retired. Still, even if time hadn't been kind to Wilson, it hadn't been particularly cruel either. He was fat, although not as fat as Radcliffe, and his eyes were failing, but his voice still contained some vigor, and he was working just as efficiently as he had in his prime. He had treated Alice during her first stay at Rutledge, and supposedly felt there was more he could have done for her before she was released. Bumby had little doubt that the old psychiatrist had made sure Alice would be reassigned to him.

"Are you feeling well?" Bumby asked.

"No worse than usual, I'm afraid. Age waits for no man, etcetera. Still, I intend to do what I can while I'm still somewhat able."

"Commendable. I can only hope I remain so dedicated when I reach your age." Bumby turned his attention to Alice. "How is she?"

"Better than she was when I first met her, but that isn't saying much, I'm afraid," Wilson replied. "She slips in and out of catatonia, but thankfully she seems a bit more lucid during her awake periods than she was during her worst years."

"Have you tried giving her electric shocks?" Bumby suggested. "I've heard it's becoming more popular."

"I already tried that during her last stay. It doesn't work. Neither do leaches, cold plaster, restraints, sensory deprivation, or any other known techniques."

"Then might I ask what you are doing, then?"

"Mostly talking with her." Wilson sighed. "Or, rather, talking to her. Her condition makes our conversations a bit one-sided."

"I can imagine. Has she had any fits lately?"

"No. Well, not many. At least, that's what I tell myself. In any case, she's certainly in no condition to return to Houndsditch with you, if that's what you're asking."

"With all due respect, I–"

"I'm afraid I must insist, Bumby. Until Alice is able to leave here by her own two feet, she must remain under closely supervised care."

Bumby hesitated, then decided that it would seem suspicious if he kept pressing the issue. "Very well, Wilson. I trust my charge will be safe under your care."

Wilson grimaced. "Under my care, certainly, but I fear that the staff may be ill disposed towards her. The superintendant's nephews haven't forgotten the time she attacked them, and I have no doubt they've told the story to all of their friends. And I suspect the nurses are greatly frustrated by her return after all the trouble she gave them the last time she was here. In fact, I suspect they've started threatening her while I'm not here, suggesting that we'll resort to drastic measures if she doesn't recover soon. I even caught one of them threatening the poor girl with trepanning, if you can imagine!"

"Well, not to sound cruel, but surely that doesn't matter if she's comatose while they say it?"

"Perhaps. But, I am beginning to suspect that she is still able to hear what we say, even if it's only on a subconscious level. Just a few days ago, during one of her awake periods, she actually asked me why I was still treating her, when I was so clearly disappointed in her lack of progress! The comment puzzled me for a while, but then I realized that I had been at times quietly muttering in her presence while she was comatose. It taught me to guard my tongue around her, I can tell you that."

"Interesting. Out of curiosity, what exactly do you two talk about while she's awake?" Bumby asked as casually as he could.

"Oh, this and that. Most of what she says is nonsense, but thankfully it's articulate nonsense."

"That's encouraging."

"It is, although it would be far more encouraging if she actually showed signs of improvement. The few times she shows any interest in reality, she mostly spends questioning me as if she were the psychiatrist."

"Has she interrogated you about the fire?"

"Once, but I told her that I didn't know anything and apparently she believed me. She probably still has some memory, albeit not in the way that we would define it."

"You don't say," Bumby replied, frowning imperceptibly.

"Her nonsense, however, worries me considerably. She's no doubt told you about Wonderland, her former dreamland turned hellscape?"

"She's mentioned it to me a few times, yes."

"Well, it seems to be threatened by forces of unimaginable horror yet again."

"Still the Red Queen?"

"No, she seems to be mostly out of the picture. This new threat is… Well, disturbing, frankly."

"I don't recall her last misadventure being particularly pleasant."

"Certainly not, but it still had a sort of childishness about it. Giant carnivorous roses, invading chess armies, a cannibalistic duchess, soldier ants with muskets, a madman with a machine army; all these are horrifying, of course, but still what one might expect in a child's fantasy book, albeit a particularly dark one. The only elements of realism in her nightmares were lifted from her personal experiences. This danger however… It's something different. A train bringing with it a corroding black substance called ruin that corrupts and enslaves all who touch it, and whose foot soldiers resemble porcelain dolls. It sounds more like something out of a particularly unsubtle novel on the evils of industrialization than something from a child's imagination."

"Alice is hardly a child anymore."

"Perhaps, but Wonderland was something of a sanctum for childishness. To see it breached… By the way, do any doll makers live near Houndsditch?"

"Doll makers? None that I'm familiar with. Why?"

"Hm. According to Alice, a sinister doll maker is directing Wonderland's ruin, although she seems just as confused by his nature as I am. I suppose it would have been a bit too simple for it to be based on a real doll maker, but I thought I might as well ask."

"Yes, well, sadly life is rarely simple."

"Too true. Still, I do believe that, with careful guidance, I can help restore her Wonderland to some of its former glory."

"Ah." Bumby hesitated, then said, "I'm afraid that your decision, while commendable, was made without awareness of all the facts."

Wilson blinked. "My decision?"

"Your decision to restore Wonderland."

"What possible objections could you have to that?" Wilson asked, laughing confusedly.

"Well, bluntly, because I am partially and intentionally behind it."

"I… I don't quite understand…"

"Well, I'm behind the train, anyway. The doll maker is an entirely foreign presence. Feel free to do whatever you want with him."

"Why would you want to destroy Wonderland?"

"…Dr. Wilson, you have treated Alice for many years, and no doubt have a very deep understanding of her mind. Would you say that she is mentally adult?"

"No. Her attempts to be cynical and proper are more her attempts to imitate adulthood than actual indicators of her mental age."

"Precisely. However, sadly, she appears to be adult to others, and so she must learn how to be an adult in order to handle situations that life outside these walls will present her, agreed?"

"I… suppose…"

"As such her Wonderland, while certainly possessing a certain inherent charm, must be either demolished or refashioned, as otherwise it will hinder her metamorphosis, if not render it impossible."

"I can see your point, but surely Alice wouldn't be the only adult who still has a connection to her childhood."

"Perhaps, but in the state she's in she needs all the aid she can receive, and Wonderland is not aiding her."

Wilson rubbed his chin. "I understand your feelings, but… I don't know. During her last stay at Rutledge, I similarly and repeatedly encouraged her to stop being childish, but it left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and it seemed to harm more than help."

"That's because you didn't go far enough with it. Hieronymous," Bumby seized the psychiatrist's arm, "I specialize in cases like hers. Despite current appearances, I was making real progress with her; more, frankly, than you did. At the moment she is in her chrysalis state, but, and I sincerely believe this, she will emerge the better for it if the ideas I implanted in her head are left untouched. She has the chance to finally become a butterfly, Dr. Wilson. Please don't force her into becoming a caterpillar once more."

Silence reigned for almost a full minute before Wilson finally sighed and said, "Well, I probably couldn't affect her even if I wanted to."

Bumby smiled and let go of the psychiatrist's arm. "I'm glad you understand."

"Hm." Wilson rubbed his eyes, then pulled out his watch. "Blast. I've got to attend to other patients. If you'd like to say a few words to her while I'm gone, feel free."

"You'd allow that?"

"You wouldn't be the first. A few of Alice's other friends, or at least people claiming to be her friends, have already visited. I'd like to think that their words helped her in some way, although honestly I doubt it. You might stand a better chance, though."

"Thank you, doctor," Bumby said, smiling as Wilson left the room.

As soon as he was certain the psychiatrist was out of ear-shot, Bumby turned to Alice, his smile gone. "Come now, Alice. Am I not to be as much honored and obeyed as the Queen? Is that asking too much? I want what she wanted. Give yourself over to that. Trade the tentacle for the train. It's altogether a better ride. It's that or back to Rutledge," he concluded, just barely stopping himself from shouting the last sentence.

If Alice heard him, she gave no indication of it.

Bumby stared at her for a while, then shrugged. Based on her history with the institution, Alice probably wouldn't want to remain in Rutledge for long when she regained her senses, assuming she ever did. In the past, the threat of returning her here had always instilled immediate obedience, so she probably didn't want to be forced to remain here. Besides, even if she remained, the doddering Wilson and the uncaring staff were unlikely to notice much. So, willing to accept that his charge was momentarily out of his reach, Bumby left the room.


	8. A Most Unwelcome Letter

If Dr. Angus Bumby had been affected by Alice's departure, he wasn't for long. It had been two months since he had visited Rutledge, and Ms. Liddell's unhappy fate barely troubled him anymore.

Instead, Dr. Bumby's attention was currently focused on sorting through his mail. Most of it was the usual inane correspondence, but two letters were of genuine interest. One was from Sir James, informing the doctor that, upon careful consideration, he had decided that Constable Loyal's alleged actions did indeed warrant investigation. The other was from Dr. Wilson.

Bumby frowned slightly as he opened Wilson's letter. The letter was marked with numerous blots, suggesting that the psychiatrist had hesitated several times while writing it. For some reason the blots filled him with unease.

The letter read as follows:

_Dear Dr. Angus Bumby,_

_You may be pleased to learn that, despite my misgivings, Superintendant Livingston has decided that Alice is once more fit to reenter society, as she no longer appears to periodically falling comatose. However, you will no doubt be less pleased to learn that, upon my insistence, she is not being returned to you, nor will her new home be revealed to you, for reasons that will become evident shortly._

_During my numerous sessions with Alice, she was finally able to identify who the mysterious doll maker haunting her fantasies is. He is you. At first I did not think much of this, as you yourself have freely admitted that you are at least partially responsible for her current state. However, after I had had some time to consider it, certain elements of the doll maker's behavior struck me as troublesome, particularly given your station in life. In an effort to ease my fears I made a few enquires – I hope you will understand if I am reluctant to discuss the specifics – into you and your establishment. What I found, while in no way conclusive, did little to alleviate my concerns._

_I shall not trouble you with the specifics, as there is a very good chance that I am thankfully mistaken, and I do not wish to scandalize or offend you. Suffice it to say that the behavior I fear you may be guilty of would not be becoming of a man of your, or any, stature._

_Therefore, upon due consideration, I have decided that, despite the implausibility of my suspicions, I cannot in good conscience return Alice to your care, nor can I advise any of my other patients to become your charges upon their release. I hope you can understand my awkward position, and I pray that I am mistaken._

_With as much respect as you are owed,_

_Dr. Hieronymous Wilson_

Bumby stared at the letter for a short time after he finished reading it, then he slowly and calmly tore it to shreds. He then took out some blank paper, seized his pen, and began writing a letter of his own.

_Dear Superintendant Hadrian Livingston,_

_As you are no doubt already aware, I recently had the pleasure of visiting your esteemed clinic. While there, I had the opportunity to meet one of the most respected members of your illustrious staff, Dr. Hieronymous Wilson. His behavior during our admittedly brief encounter and what others have told me about him since has left me deeply concerned. At first, out of respect for Wilson and his numerous accolades, I was tempted to leave the matter be. However, upon consulting with several of my friends, I decided that doing so could be disastrous._

_During our meeting, Dr. Wilson seemed harried, ailing, and disturbingly absent-minded. He did not seem to be completely aware of his surroundings, and openly conversed with me about one of his patient's confidential behavior. Furthermore, I have received reports that he may have begun making slanderous accusations about me and several other perfectly respectable gentlemen. To say that I find this behavior troubling would be a grave understatement._

_I shall be short. Dr. Wilson's record is impeccable, and I still believe that he only means well. However, age and wisdom do not always go together. His increasingly erratic behavior, and the potential reactions some might have to it, threaten to blemish both his record and your institution's good name. I hold both you and Dr. Wilson in the highest regard, and I would not like to see either of you made to look foolish._

_I trust you will make the right decision._

_With boundless sincerity,_

_Dr. Angus Bumby_


	9. Alice Liddell's Final Session

Dr. Angus Bumby glanced at his pocket watch, frowned, and then returned it to his coat pocket.

It would still be some time before the train carrying Alice's replacement would arrive. Normally Bumby wouldn't have attempted to retry what had turned into a nearly unmitigated failure, but his clients had shown interest in purchasing older goods, so here he was. The underground station was curiously deserted, probably due to the combination of it being late and the inclement weather. Much as he hated to admit it, the isolation was beginning to make the doctor nervous.

Bumby pulled out his watch again, then growled, wishing that he could speed up time. Lacking anything better to do, he began idly twirling the key he kept at the end of his watch chain.

The key was nothing special; Bumby could no longer remember how he'd gotten it, or even what it had once opened, although whatever it had been must have been somewhat sentimental to him at the time, as he was loath to throw it away. Regardless, swinging it back and forth in front of his patients had a hypnotic effect, which, while not nearly as effective as some believed, still increased their suggestibility.

Eventually, feeling somewhat childish, he stopped playing with the key and returned it and the watch to his pocket. He leaned forward slightly to see if he could spot the train, but he couldn't see anything. He leaned back and idly scratched his nose.

"You oozing sore of drepravity…" an enraged, but familiar, voice shouted behind him. "Children wearing their names around their necks, as if they're breeding livestock!"

Bumby sighed and turned around, coming face to face with his former patient. "Hello, Alice."

Alice looked reasonably well, all things considered. At any rate, she didn't look any worse than when she had lived in Houndsditch, and, unlike the last few times she and the doctor had met, she was now fully mobile. She was wearing what appeared to be the same clothes she had worn while she had been his patient; either she hadn't bought any new ones, or she had become very fond of the style. More pressingly, she also appeared to have realized what the true nature of Bumby's supposed philanthropy was. This had already happened a few times before, but, as she was no longer in his care, the doctor wouldn't be able to make her forget this time. He wasn't worried, though. No one believed anything she said.

"The signs," Bumby continued, "indicate that they are receiving some of the best care in London, and they are quite proud of them. I could get one for you, too, if you're interested in coming back," he added, chuckling.

"You brute!" Alice replied, on the verge of tears.

Bumby resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was fairly certain he hadn't sounded that callous, which probably meant that Alice was only hearing a mangled version of what he was actually saying, if that. Still, it wasn't like he had anything better to do than talk with her.

"They can't remember who they are or where they're from!" Alice continued, recovering slightly. "How many minds have you twisted into forgetfulness?"

"Not enough," Bumby replied bluntly, deciding to drop all pretext. "And it's a shame I wasn't able to do the same to you. Still, I managed to render you harmless to me. That's something."

"You've used me," Alice hissed, seething, "and abused me, but you will not destroy me."

Bumby grabbed Alice and threw her onto the train tracks.

"No?" the doctor asked, crossing his arms, as he was now slightly annoyed himself. "The damage is done. Your former self and her Wonderland escapism are both entering remission. You can't even recognize what's happened. And you can't do anything to either recover or avenge them," he added, uncrossing his arms as he thought back to Constable Loyal and Dr. Wilson, "I've made certain of that."

"You corrupted my memories, but you failed to make me forget," Alice almost triumphantly countered.

Bumby took out his gun and shot Alice twice in her chest. He pulled out his watch and used the key on the end of its chain to repeatedly stab her.

"You can't even begin to imagine what I could have done for you," the doctor growled. "Clients out the door waiting to better know a raving delusional beauty, with no memory of the past, or no sense of the future. But you wouldn't forget; you were too mired in your own delusions. You're mad!" Bumby exclaimed. It had been a long time since a woman had given him this much trouble and then had the gall to act like she was the injured party. In fact, there had only been one before who had been as aggravating. "Like your sister," he hissed.

"Don't speak of her!" Alice yelled, taking a step forward. "You didn't know her…"

Bumby grabbed her head and gouged her eyes out with his thumbs. He dashed her head against the station wall until nothing was left but pulp.

"Your sister was a tease," the doctor snorted. Somewhere in the back of his mind a dam broke, a flood of repressed memories surging through, but he was far too angry to either notice or care. "Pretended that she didn't care for me." Bumby grinned. "She got what she wanted in the end." He pulled out his watch so that the key on the end of its chain, the key that had once locked and unlocked the door of Elizabeth Liddell, faced Alice.

Alice's eyes immediately went to the key and stayed there, her face growing somewhat slack. Bumby blinked in mild surprise that it still got such a strong reaction, then he smiled and slowly started swing the key back and forth. Back and forth. Back and f–

Alice tore her gaze away from the key, her expression immediately hardening again. "I'll see you charged," she hissed as Bumby frowned, put away his watch, and crossed his arms once more. "In prison, some half-wit bruiser will make you his sweetheart. And then you'll hang."

Bumby wrapped his hands around Alice's throat and strangled her. He grabbed her limbs and ripped them off one by one.

"Indeed?" the doctor sneered. "A hysterical woman, former lunatic, roaring outrageous accusations against a respectable social architect and scientist. My God, Alice, who would believe you? I scarcely believe it myself."

"You… monstrous creature. Such evil will be punished."

"By whom?" Bumby asked impatiently. "By what? Psychotic, silly bitch," he snorted. "Your madness will be punished. Now leave," he muttered, pulling out his watch yet again, but now to actually see what time it was. "I'm expecting your replacement."

Alice marched up and seized the key at the end of the watch chain. She gave it a sharp tug, the rusty link connecting it to the rest of the chain snapping between her pull and the doctor's grip. She then turned around and started walking away.

Bumby reached out his left hand and was about to protest, but then thought better of it. The key would be easy to replace, and Alice could hardly prove its origin.

The girl suddenly stopped halfway to the steps leading out of the station.

She turned around.

Her limbs reattached themselves.

Bumby's eyes widened with fear.

The marks on her neck where he had strangled her disappeared and she started to once again breathe.

Alice started walking towards Bumby.

Her head regenerated itself.

They were now face to face.

Her eyes grew back, the piercing green orbs boring a hole into him.

He took an involuntary step backward, his heels brushing the edge of the platform.

Her stab wounds all healed.

Bumby tried to say something, but he couldn't. He was paralyzed.

The bullet holes ejected their foreign, metal creators and closed.

The train was finally arriving, and its deafening noise was make it intolerably hard to think.

Alice jumped out of the train tracks back onto the station.

She gave the doctor a sharp shove.

Too scared to steady himself, Bumby fell backwards. He turned his head slightly to the left and looked directly at the oncoming train.


	10. The Puppet and his Puppeteers

Angus Bumby blinked, and suddenly found himself in a dark room. There was only one light, whose source he couldn't see, which shone down on him. It revealed that he had been strapped to a chaise lounge similar to the one he had in his office in Houndsditch for his patients. Exactly like it, in fact. Actually, it was it, only now it had straps like those on an asylum gurney that prevented Angus from moving any part of his body except his head, no matter how hard he struggled.

Blood suddenly started dripping down from the ceiling to Angus's left. It ran down as if it were filling an invisible mold. The blood looked like it might be human, but it was able to add detail to the thing it was making by carefully allocating darker blood to some areas and lighter blood to others. Eventually the blood finished pouring down, although it kept swirling regardless, revealing it had created a colossal likeness of a human in laborer's clothes seated on a simple chair with a cigar in one hand and a tankard in the other.

After studying it for a while, Angus realized that the person was in fact a giant version of himself.

The thing took a drink from its tankard, pouring dark blood into its bloody mouth, and then grinned at Angus. "Well, looks like we're rogered, eh?" he said in what was unmistakably Angus's voice.

"W-who are you?" Angus stammered.

"What," the apparition corrected. "And you can call me: 'The Brute.' Not much of a name, sure, but, then again, I'm not much of a person, am I?"

"What's going on?"

"I'm not really the one to answer that, mate. Just wait a bit and I'm sure he'll pop up." The Brute sighed. "He always does, damn him."

A fire suddenly roared up to Angus's right. It quickly formed another version of him, this one seated in an elaborately elegant chair and dressed in Angus's Sunday best, with a fine glass of wine in his left hand.

"Language, Brute," the new specter chided, his voice also Angus's, although with a strangely refined crackle to it.

"The fop's 'The Gentleman,'" The Brute explained, saying the last two words with exaggerated pomp. "He ain't the one I was talking about, but he's just as irritating."

"Funny," The Gentleman replied. "I was about to say the same thing about you."

"See, that don't even make sense. I was continuing a conversation with Angus that we'd started before you arrived. If you'd said what I just said, you would've sounded even dumber than usual."

The Gentleman rolled his eyes. "You see what I'm forced to work with," he sighed to Angus.

"Oh yeah, just keep acting uptight," The Brute growled. "That little network you built for Angus don't help you none in here."

"True, but neither does your violence," The Gentleman pointed out. "You can't hit me, so you're left with nothing but your lack of wits to use against me."

The Brute narrowed his eyes and puffed on his cigar. Instead of smoke what came out of his mouth were sprays of blood, like those created by slitting a throat or hitting a head with a hammer. "Oh yeah, real high and mighty, ain't ya? And what good did those wits of yours do for Angus with Lizzy, eh?"

The Gentleman thinned his mouth. "I will admit, that situation did call for drastic measures, but your measures were a tad too drastic."

"Hey, every piece Angus has ever gotten he got because of me!"

"Yes, his astounding one piece. The piece he'll never get to enjoy again, because subtlety and you go together like oil and water."

"Still more than you got for him."

Smoke suddenly rose from the floor directly in front of Angus, forming yet another version of him. This one wore what he did when he was at work and holding a glass of what looked like it might be water. He was seated in Angus's office chair and had absolutely no expression on his face.

"You're only confusing him more, you know," he told his two siblings.

"Ah, stuff it!" The Brute shouted at the newcomer. "You're just as narcissistic as he is, you're just too arrogant to admit it! Am I right, Angus?"

"Dr. Bumby," Angus mumbled.

"Hm?" The Gentleman asked.

"My name is… People call me Dr. Bumby."

"In here I'm The Doctor," the smoke version of Angus explained. "And, given how long we've known each other, I'd say that we're entitled to call you Angus."

"But… what is here?" Angus asked pleadingly.

"As I was trying to explain before I was so rudely interrupted–"

"Up yours!" The Brute shouted.

"There's nothing you could explain that I couldn't explain better," The Gentleman muttered.

The Doctor sighed. "They're both quite incorrigible, I'm afraid. Although, I suppose that's to be expected. We are, after all, in your mind."

"In my what?" Angus asked

"Your mind!" The Gentleman repeated, theatrically waving his arms about.

"That's impossible," Angus replied.

The Doctor shook his head. "Your reactio–"

"Ha!" The Gentleman interrupted. "I told you he'd prefer me over you!"

The Doctor blinked. "What?"

"Well, he didn't pay attention when you told him where we were, but he did when I told him."

The Brute groaned. "You know what? For all I've said, I'll admit that you did just do a fantastic job of demonstrating how smart you really are, Gentleman."

"As I was saying," The Doctor continued, still not betraying any emotion, "your reaction is understandable; in fact, it's commendable. It would be far more worrying if you easily accepted such a fantastical idea. Still, as I suspect your foolishness has made our time run short, I must ask you to accept this fact, implausible as it may be, as quickly as possible."

"But, why am I here?" Angus asked.

"What, you want to be there when the train hits you?" The Brute chuckled.

"Amazingly, The Brute is correct," The Doctor explained. "The most likely explanation is that your imminent demise forced you here as a self-defense mechanism."

"It's a pity I'll never be able to make you grow a spine, Angus," The Gentleman sighed.

The Brute snorted. "You wouldn't know a spine from a spinach leaf."

"Wait, if I'm in my mind, then who are you?" Angus asked.

"We're–"

"Hold it, Doc," The Brute interrupted. "Who made you spokesman?"

"Would you prefer explaining our circumstances to this dullard?" The Doctor asked.

"Well, I didn't say that…"

"I'll do it." The Gentleman offered. "Look, it's quite simple," he explained, turning to Angus. "Like I said, I'm the Gentleman. That's The Brute, and he's The Doctor."

"He already knows that, you git!" The Brute yelled.

"I know, I know, just give me a minute!"

"Why?" The Doctor asked. "You didn't give me one."

"Look, if this keeps up, he'll be crushed before we've explained anything," The Gentleman sighed. "How about from now on we don't interrupt each other unless we actually have something important to say, agreed?"

"If only those who are important may speak, then couldn't you two just leave?" The Doctor asked.

"Firstly, that's not what I said," The Gentleman replied. "Secondly, go to Hell."

"I'd say we're well on our way."

"I'm game if Doc's game," The Brute shrugged. "Anything to stop this back and forth. It's no fun if you can't punch the other guy."

"Very well, for the sake of expediency," The Doctor sighed.

All three turned to Angus.

"…Oh, uh, I agree."

"Wonderful," The Gentleman said. "So, to answer your question, we're the primary aspects of your mind. We basically control everything you do. In fact, we practically run your business for you. I handle the excruciating task of maintaining our public image, building a network of actually valuable connections, and doing accountancy, while The Doctor brainwashes and The Brute handles sales."

"Since I am the one who is actually creating our business's product, I'd say I'm the one working the hardest," The Doctor pointed out.

"Screw you," The Brute replied. "Neither of you two pansies would last ten seconds where I have to go. Besides, Doc, it's your fault we haven't had sex in… well, just about ever!"

"One does not dip into one's own supply," The Doctor replied. "May I remind you that virgins are what our clientele is demanding?"

"Well, fair enough, but then why can't we dip into someone else's supply? I could get a whore who can twist her legs into a pretzel in less than a minute in less than a second, and even I'll admit The Gentleman could probably manage to get us at least one affair."

"I agree with The Brute on this," The Gentleman said. "Only this, mind you. Some temperance is a good thing, but this is blatantly excessive."

"We needed to stay focused if we wanted to accomplish anything," The Doctor replied. "Need I remind you of the catastrophe that occurred the last time Angus tried to have sex?"

"Those were extenuating circumstances!" The Brute shouted.

"They always are. Besides, I'd say it's a little late to have this argument now."

Sensing an opening in the discussion, Angus asked, "Why do you look the way you do?"

"You mean you haven't figured it out yet?" The Brute asked.

"We are formed from the most important components of the night you raped Elizabeth Liddell and murdered her and the majority of her family," The Doctor explained.

"Why?" Angus asked.

"It's your mind," The Gentleman pointed out. "You tell us."

"Personally," The Doctor suggested, "I believe that the memory of the Liddell Fire holds a prominent place in your mind, so it's only natural your frankly somewhat lackluster imagination would rely on it as a crutch to envision us."

"But… But why am I here?" Angus asked again.

"Do we really have to cover the whole train thing again?" The Brute groaned.

"I mean, why here, specifically?"

"…As opposed to where?" The Gentleman asked.

"You're mind is a rather barren place, I'm afraid," The Doctor explained. "Not because you're dumb, of course, but because you have little time or patience for escapism."

"He could have at least thought up a brothel," The Brute muttered.

There was a long pause.

"So… what now?" Angus asked.

"Now nothing," The Brute replied. "Now we wait patiently until it's all over."

"But… aren't you going to do something about it?"

The Gentleman chuckled. "Unless The Brute suddenly figures out how to punch through trains, I'm afraid that's quite impossible."

"Actually, I was gonna suggest The Doctor try convincing the train to derail itself," The Brute said.

"Well, perhaps The Gentleman could bore it to death," The Doctor proposed.

"But… but I don't want to die," Angus whimpered.

"Oh, man up!" The Brute snorted. "You may be a wimp out there, but you can at least try to have some stones in here."

"But I don't deserve this!"

"Actually, you sort of do," The Gentleman pointed out. "You are quite possibly one of the most irredeemably evil people we've ever met, and remember, we've met the worst of both worlds."

"If… if I hadn't done it, someone else would have!" Angus protested.

"There are very few psychiatrists who make the transition to pimp supplier," The Doctor countered. "In fact, I'd say it's a somewhat singular phenomenon."

"I… I can't die!" Angus protested. "The East End needs me!"

There was a pause, and then both The Brute and The Gentleman burst into laughter. Even The Doctor smiled.

"I mean it!" Angus insisted, his cheeks glowing hot with embarrassment.

"Damn, Gentleman," The Brute chuckled. "I guess you really are a great conman."

"As flattered as I am, surely you can see at least partially through my carefully constructed web of deceit," The Gentleman said, smiling.

"But… I was doing good work!" Angus protested. "If I die… If I die, there will be people who miss me!"

"Oh, certainly," The Brute agreed. "The perverts of London have lost a great friend today."

"Your death probably will trouble our important friends for at least five minutes," The Gentleman added.

"And who knows?" The Doctor concluded. "Perhaps a few decades from now a psychology student will get his hands on some of your notes and steal some of your ideas for his thesis."

"It's not fair," Angus whined, on the verge of tears.

"Come now, you're not some rosy-cheeked idealist," The Gentleman chided.

"Why are you being so mean to me?" Angus cried out. "I'm you!"

"Actually, we're you," The Doctor corrected.

"Plus, in case you haven't noticed, we all loathe each other," The Brute explained. "When we see you, we see ourselves, but we also see the other two. It's two against one, you see?"

"Please," Angus asked, now actually crying. "Have you no sympathy?"

"Why should we?" The Doctor asked. "You don't."

"I did what I had to do!" Angus screamed. "I didn't have any choice! I didn't know any other way to make that kind of money while appearing righteous! I needed money and respect to help the East End! I… I really did think Lizzy loved me!"

"You can lie to everyone else, but you can't lie to us," The Brute replied.

"It's the truth! I couldn't help it!"

"You're right, you couldn't." The Doctor agreed. "But not because you had no other options. You've always been ruled by your compulsions, Angus, that's why I said that we control you, not the other way around. Or did you think the fact that you're tiny and bound while we're huge and free was meaningless?"

"When's the last time when you've actually denied yourself when you had the chance to get away with something?" The Gentleman asked.

"I… I…" Angus stammered.

"Exactly."

"That's… That's not true!"

"Of course it is!" The Brute said. "And if you still don't believe me, see if any of this sounds familiar: 'I need to make Elizabeth mine.'"

"'I need to be loved by all, even if it's all built on a lie,'" The Gentleman offered.

"'I need to be rich and powerful, no matter the cost,'" The Doctor sighed.

"'I need to ruin that person,'" The Gentleman chuckled.

"Any of this ringing any bells?" The Brute sneered. "And tell me, how many of those did you actually 'need,' huh? I'll tell you: none! For all your airs, for all your posturing, all you are is a sad little man with no self-control who decided the bit of power he'd managed to scrape together made him worth more than the people who actually managed to have more self-control than a magpie!"

Angus broke down sobbing.

"…Good Lord, did that actually break him?" The Gentleman asked. "We put Alice through a nightmarish brainwashing, and she manages to not only overcome it, but actually emerges with more of her memory intact; however, just yelling at him utterly destroys Angus?"

"Guess he wasn't used to blokes talking back to him," The Brute shrugged.

The Doctor shook his head. "I can't believe he actually created us."

"I imagine the Devil once said the same thing about God," The Gentleman remarked, pulling out his watch. "Anyway, it looks like it's about to no longer matter. Any final thoughts?"

"Only that I'm happy to die if it means all of you die too," The Brute replied.

"It's been fascinating trying to determine why you're both so utterly insane," The Doctor offered.

"Civil as always," The Gentleman muttered. "How about one last toast before we go, then?"

"If you insist," The Doctor sighed.

"Well, I suppose we might as well go out on a semblance of a high note," The Brute shrugged.

The three horrifying specters raised their respective glasses, and then brought them together. For some reason, the sound they made when they collided sounded to Angus exactly like what a train pulling into a station might sound like if it hit someone.


End file.
